A period of bad weather had settled upon Gardencourt; the days grew shorter and there was an end to the pretty tea-parties on the lawn.But our young woman had long indoor conversations with her fellow visitor, and in spite of the rain the two ladies often sallied forth for a walk, equipped with the defensive apparatus which the English climate and the English genius have between them brought to such perfection.Madame Merle liked almost everything, including the English rain."There's always a little of it and never too much at once," she said; "and it never wets you and it always smells good." She declared that in England the pleasures of smell were great- that in this inimitable island there was a certain mixture of fog and beer and soot which, however odd it might sound, was the national aroma, and was most agreeable to the nostril; and she used to lift the sleeve of her British overcoat and bury her nose in it, inhaling the clear, fine scent of the wool.Poor Ralph Touchett, as soon as the autumn had begun to define itself, became almost a prisoner; in bad weather he was unable to step out of the house, and he used sometimes to stand at one of the windows with his hands in his pockets and, from a countenance half-rueful, half-critical, watch Isabel and Madame Merle as they walked down the avenue under a pair of umbrellas.The roads about Gardencourt were so firm, even in the worst weather, that the two ladies always came back with a healthy glow in their cheeks, looking at the soles of their neat, stout boots and declaring that their walk had done them inexpressible good.Before luncheon, always, Madame Merle was engaged; Isabel admired and envied her rigid possession of her morning.Our heroine had always passed for a person of resources and had taken a certain pride in being one; but she wandered, as by the wrong side of the wall of a private garden, round the enclosed talents, accomplishments, aptitudes of Madame Merle.She found herself desiring to emulate them, and in twenty such ways this lady presented herself as a model."I should like awfully to be so!" Isabel secretly exclaimed, more than once, as one after another of her friend's fine aspects caught the light, and before long she knew that she had learned a lesson from a high authority.It took no great time indeed for her to feel herself, as the phrase is, under an influence."What's the harm," she wondered, "so long as it's a good one? The more one's under a good influence the better.The only thing is to see our steps as we take them- to understand them as we go.That, no doubt, I shall always do.I needn't be afraid of becoming too pliable; isn't it my fault that I'm not pliable enough?" It is said that imitation is the sincerest flattery; and if Isabel was sometimes moved to gape at her friend aspiringly and despairingly it was not so much because she desired herself to shine as because she wished to hold up the lamp for Madame Merle.She liked her extremely, but was even more dazzled than attracted.She sometimes asked herself what Henrietta Stackpole would say to her thinking so much of this perverted product of their common soil, and had a conviction that it would be severely judged.
Henrietta would not at all subscribe to Madame Merle; for reasons she could not have defined this truth came home to the girl.On the other hand she was equally sure that, should the occasion offer, her new friend would strike off some happy view of her old: Madame Merle was too humorous, too observant, not to do justice to Henrietta, and on becoming acquainted with her would probably give the measure of a tact which Miss Stackpole couldn't hope to emulate.She appeared to have in her experience a touchstone for everything, and somewhere in the capacious pocket of her genial memory she would find the key to Henrietta's value."That's the great thing," Isabel solemnly pondered;"that's the supreme good fortune: to be in a better position for appreciating people than they are for appreciating you." And she added that such, when one considered it, was simply the essence of the aristocratic situation.In this light, if in none other, one should aim at the aristocratic situation.
I may not count over all the links in the chain which led Isabel to think of Madame Merle's situation as aristocratic- a view of it never expressed in any reference made to it by that lady herself.
She had known great things and great people, but she had never played a great part.She was one of the small ones of the earth; she had not been born to honours; she knew the world too well to nourish fatuous illusions on the article of her own place in it.She had encountered many of the fortunate few and was perfectly aware of those points at which their fortune differed from hers.But if by her informed measure she was no figure for a high scene, she had yet to Isabel's imagination a sort of greatness.To be so cultivated and civilized, so wise and so easy, and still make so light of it- that was really to be a great lady, especially when one so carried and presented one's self.It was as if somehow she had all society under contribution, and all the arts and graces it practised- or was the effect rather that of charming uses found for her, even from a distance, subtle service rendered by her to a clamorous world wherever she might be? After breakfast she wrote a succession of letters, as those arriving for her appeared innumerable: her correspondence was a source of surprise to Isabel when they sometimes walked together to the village post-office to deposit Madame Merle's offering to the mail.She knew more people, as she told Isabel, than she knew what to do with, and something was always turning up to be written about.
